Birthday parties are like pelvic exams—uncomfortable,
awkward, and a little too personal, but an unavoidable
yearly nuisance—like a pap smear, only with presents. So I
should have known I couldn’t tiptoe past this day with both
my secret, and my dignity, intact.

There I was, just minding my own business, looking for a cup
of coffee in the Surgery Center staff lounge, when suddenly
I was surrounded. They pounced, silently and with no
warning. The air around me morphed into a shimmering tsunami
of pink metallic confetti. Throaty laughter filled my ears.
Warm bodies surged forward, pressing me into the corner of
the room. More sparkles flew, clinging to my face and hair
like sparkly shrapnel.

They were onto me, and there was no escape.

I was a victim of the Birthday Ninja Glitter-Bomb Squad.

Because today was no ordinary day. It was, in fact, my
birthday. A birthday I wasn’t happy about. A birthday I
wanted to ignore. A birthday that punted me from the
eighteen-to-thirty-four bracket into the
thirty-five-to-death category. Now I was trapped inside the
birthday ninjas’ rainbow-bright web. Resistance was futile.

“Surprise!”

“Happy birthday, Evelyn!”

“Happy birthday, Dr. Rhoades!”

Another cloud of confetti descended, and someone plunked a
tarnished rhinestone tiara on my head. Quasi-benevolent good
wishes blended with giggles as the lounge filled with my
physician partners and members of our office staff, two
dozen in all. Delle, our rotund, middle-aged receptionist,
bustled forward importantly and placed a candle-laden cake
on the table in the center of the room. She smiled wide,
triumphant.

They all did. The whole herd of them beamed at me and
shifted on their feet, expectation glowing in their shining
eyes. They looked jubilant, the way people do when they want
you to be overcome with delight . . . which I was not.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate their efforts. I’m not a
complete birthday Scrooge . . . except when it comes to my
own birthday. I’m just not a big-celebration, look-at-me
kind of woman. Having all that attention directed my way for
something no more notable than aging seems silly. Like
getting the green participation ribbon for field day. I
hadn’t worked to earn this. I was being rewarded simply for
showing up.

“Well, did we surprise you?” Delle demanded. She nudged
thick glasses against the bridge of her nose with a pudgy
thumb. She had different frames for each day of the week.
These were teal. It must be Tuesday.

For a split second I hoped the open flames of all those
candles might set off the smoke alarms, forcing us to vacate
the building. But no such luck. Snagged in that moment, I
had no choice but to take one for the team. I plastered on
my fake happy birthday face.

“Gosh, you guys. Yes. Wow. You really did surprise me. I had
no idea anyone even knew it was my birthday.” My surprise
was genuine, but I also did a pretty commendable job at
sounding pleased. Score one for me.

“Dr. Pullman told us. You should thank her.” Delle pointed
at the tall brunette with the two-hundred-dollar haircut and
ridiculously impractical high-heeled shoes.

I swung my gaze toward Hilary Pullman, the one person in
town who knew unequivocally I didn’t want a fuss made today.
She was my professional colleague, my most trusted
confidante, and until ten seconds ago, my closest friend.
We’d met during our plastic surgery residency and bonded
over the trials and tribulations of being a woman in
medicine. Nothing quite cements a friendship like sharing a
post-call toothbrush before morning rounds.

She returned a guileless smile and shrugged in her typical
sorry-but-not-really fashion. She stepped away from the
cluster of birthday revelers. The hem of her fitted black
pencil skirt barely cleared the bottom of her white lab
coat. Some might say that skirt was too short. And they’d be
right. But in all honestly, if I had legs like hers, I’d
wear skirts like that too. Unfortunately, I didn’t, and so I
couldn’t. I was five two. Nothing was short on me except for
me.

Hilary picked up a spatula from the table with her graceful
fingers and handed it to me, handle first.

“Happy birthday, Evie. I know this isn’t as sharp as what
you’re used to, but here you go. Don’t stab me with it.” She
winked playfully.

I took the spatula and tried to glare at her without letting
the others see, but she was entirely immune to my annoyance.
It wasn’t that she didn’t notice. She just didn’t care.
Hilary thought her role in our friendship was to taunt me,
and cajole me out of my comfort zone.

Somewhere along the line, she’d decided it was her job to
loosen me up. But I didn’t need loosening up. I liked myself
just the way I was. Most of the time.

Delle clasped her hands in front of her massive double-Ds.
“Well, make a wish, Dr. Rhoades. Blow out the candle.”

I smiled, trying so valiantly to make it seem legit it
almost felt as if it were. Their intentions were good, after
all. I cleared my throat and took a breath. “Thank you,
everyone. This is really very sweet. These past few months
here in Bell Harbor have been wonderful, and you’ve all made
me feel right at home. I can’t think of anything else I need
to wish for.”

“How about a husband?” Delle called out, giggling again, and
nodding at the others, perspiration gleaming against her
dark forehead.

Oh, she was hilarious, wasn’t she? Heckling me on my own
birthday?

One disadvantage of moving to such a small community? The
complete lack of privacy. Everyone in town seemed to know I
lived alone I was perpetually single. That fact weighed
heavily on everyone’s mind. Everyone’s except mine, that is.
I still had plenty of time to find a husband.

Assuming I even wanted one.

Which I didn’t.

Most of the time.